Four Long Years

I miss my boy. I know; he's been a man for many years, but tonight I'm missing that boy that called to see how things were, that never missed an opportunity to make me smile, that took his responsibility as oldest child seriously.
It's been four years ago today that I last talked to Jason. He called on his way to play golf. We didn't talk long, something I still wish I could change. Tony and I were out walking when he called, so we just caught up for a minute. Then we hung up.
The sound of his voice hasn't left me, maybe because Carson sounds more and more like him as he gets older. The memory of his face hasn't left me. I see the way he looked as a baby, as a toddler, as a kid, as a teenager, as a man. Even if I never looked at another picture of him; his image if forever etched in my mind.
I remember how he looked before the scar, before the freckles. I remember him in the best and worst days of his life. He was such a happy kid, but he was just Humphrey enough that you couldn't always tell that. He had that serious, businesslike face that didn't always reveal that what he was doing was fun for him. I especially remember that when he was competing on a cutting horse. The first picture we have of him when he was competing was so cute. He was all smiles, and the turnback guys were all smiles too. I always wished he would continue to smile like that when riding, but he didn't. Instead, he got that "down to business" expression on his face and went to work. It was only after the scores were announced that you witnessed any emotion. A high score meant he was going to pat Sally and later Charlie and give credit to the horse. I saw him win, and I saw him lose. Not much difference.
There was one place that Jason exhibited emotion--Gallagher Iba and Boone Pickens stadium. Those two places saw him laugh, smile, scream, you name it. I think I miss him most on game days. If his Cowboys played a good game, he could discuss it for hours. If they played poorly, well he could talk about that too. One thing never changed though. He was the orangest person I've ever known, and he left that legacy to Allison and Carson. Faithful and true....they truly are.
Four years is a long time.

September, I'm reclaiming you.

For three years now I've dreaded September. So many memories of that dreaded night four years ago when I first learned of Jason's death have crowded out the good feelings about the month. I love football; it starts in September, I enjoy Labor Day, the last hoorah of summer, the first day out of school for us, we always had a huge birthday party for my dad whose birthday was Sept. 10th, but the sorrow and loss has stolen this month from me. I find myself looking forward to Sept. 20th, the day that changed my life and my family forever. I don't mean "looking forward." There's nothing to look forward to, but I can't enjoy the day by day march to that date. I keep thinking... it's coming, how will I handle it this year, will there ever come a time when it doesn't punch me in the gut, what can I do to honor Jason's memory in a healthy way? I've decided that I will re-claim this month. I will look for ways to celebrate his life, celebrate his place in our family, celebrate the friendships he made in his 33 years on this earth, celebrate OSU football in his honor, celebrate the gift God gave me when he allowed me to be Jason's mom. I miss him. I don't really think I miss him more in September than I do in all the other months. I'd just love to talk to him for a few minutes. When I hear people complaining about their adult kids, I want to grab them by the collar and scream, "You are blessed to have them here to give you gray hair." "You are blessed that they need to borrow a little money occasionally." "You are blessed that they drop their kids off for you to watch." "You are blessed to have your kids outlive you." I'm not alone in this journey. I am friends with so many who have lost a child. Some of them lost children, of them lost teenagers, some lost young adults, some lost adult children like we did. The common thread that runs through our lives is we will always think in "would-have-beens." I didn't start writing this to be a sermon. I wanted to acknowledge that we have made it to another September. It's just that lately I've noticed so many people who are fussing with their family members. My husband goes every morning to see his mother in the nursing home even though she treats him horribly. I want to scream at her, "I would give anything to see Jason for just a few minutes every day." We have friends who do not speak to their parents, children, siblings, cousins, others friends. I want to scream, "Seriously, folks, life's too short for this nonsense." I have many many emotions tied up to my loss of Jason, but regret is not one of them. I've survived the heartache of losing parents, sisters, and a son, but I can look back on my relationship with all of them with no regrets.